


Running Mascara

by Celebrimbor_Of_Eregion



Series: Angsty Silvergifting (and Other Angsty Celebrimbor Things) [9]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, M/M, Makeup, Sauron is on probation, Silverfisting, fancy Tyelpë, fourth age valinor, silvergifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 12:02:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18052151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celebrimbor_Of_Eregion/pseuds/Celebrimbor_Of_Eregion
Summary: Very tiny angsty one-shot. Tyelpë struggles getting over Annatar in the new life.





	Running Mascara

Tyelpë leans forward to the mirror, his skilled fingers quickly filling out the space between his eyelashes. The pigment is dark, the darkest he could find in Tirion to have his eyes properly lined. He puts some on his lashes, closes the tin, and takes a step back to assess the result. It’s bright in here, too bright, the rays of sunshine peeking between the heavy curtains. He doesn’t want that.

What is the point of looking so good? Every time a disappointment. He would approach the mirror, thinking the magic of properly picked colors and textures would make him happy, but it does not. Nevermind the compliments he gathers in bulk, he wants one person to see, to notice, to be stabbed right where it hurts with those lashes, but it doesn’t work that way. There is no way to put it back together, two ages later, pages of history books, broken arrows, and lost lives separating them. No amount of glitter can fix that.

He doesn’t apply much glitter, after all. Just a little bit, just because it looks good on him. Or is it too much? Are those heels too high? He is tall enough, taller than many Noldor, yet he still needs those heels for some reason - pathetic shoes for a pathetic Elf. Would be funny if he stumbles on them while passing Annatar by.

He is almost ready to do that, though, just to see Annatar react, secretly hoping for a bit of compassion. Tyelpë sighs, fidgeting with his keys, the silver keychain matching his nails so well. Compassion? What compassion? Annatar had two years to show compassion back in the Second Age, and yet he was uncompassionate in every possible way. He will just smirk at Tyelpë’s pain, that’s all he does. That’s all he does.

And Tyelpë walks by, busy with his own things, busy and unattainable - that’s what  _ he _ does. It’s never any differed - he crafts perfection in front of a mirror, passes by, Annatar smirks. Every week. He should probably adopt more muted looks, it comes across as a bit strange in the library - which is the purpose of the walk, he tells himself. Perhaps he should pick some Second Age histories there to remind himself what happened and finally break free from that stupid tightness in the chest.

Annatar doesn’t exist. Annatar doesn’t love him. Nothing was ever real.

And yet he locks the door and walks a familiar path. 


End file.
